24 When Blind Men Meet the Elephant
by Thescarredman
Summary: In search of her lost memories, Anna tracks down the men who experimented on her in IO's labs , and gets some surprises.
1. Chapter 1

Tuesday November 7 2006

Cantyre County, North Channel, Scotland

Alistair Bryce woke, for want of a better term, in his usual manner: with a groan and a hand over his eyes, feeling like Death had been scheduled to visit but had lost his address. He rolled slowly to the edge of his bed, mindful of his pounding head that, like a bomb, threatened to explode if jostled. He threw off sheets that hadn't been changed anytime in recent memory, put his feet on the floor, and sat with his head between his knees.

Once he felt he could stand without falling over, he rose and shuffled towards the bathroom, trying to decide which to do first – piss, throw up, or brush his teeth. The decision being beyond his present faculties, he changed course, toeing aside empty tins, dirty dishes, and old newspapers as he navigated towards the kitchen and his dwindling stock of Glenlivet.

He opened the cabinet and took down his last bottle with shaking hands. He told himself he wasn't really starting again as soon as he woke up; he just needed a taste, the hair of the dog, a dose of medicine to get right again. _I won't take another till noon, at least. I can show that much self-control, surely._

He poured two fingers into a glass and downed it. But he didn't put the bottle back in the cupboard, instead carrying it by its neck through the cluttered sitting room. On his way, he passed the house's only clock, which showed a time of ten-forty. He eyed it blearily as he deposited the bottle on the table by his favorite chair. _Till noon. Surely._

He managed a sort of morning toilet, brushing his teeth and running a razor over his face without looking in a mirror, then taking a shower behind a curtain so scummy its original color was uncertain. The delivery boy was due today, and Alistair supposed he should keep up appearances.

He knew better, actually; he knew his reputation among the folk here, and saw it in the delivery boy's eyes whenever he traded cash for a bag of staples and another of whiskey bottles at the front door. But Alistair's little attempt was less for the few visitors to his arse-end-of-the-world retirement cottage than for himself.

He stepped out the front door, blinking at the light from the hazy sky and coughing a couple of times in the fresh air, and retrieved his daily paper from the stoop without a glance at the rolling scenery around his cottage. Then he made his way to the sitting room and the big chair that was the only furniture in the house still clear enough to sit on. He settled in, turned on the radio on the table beside his chair – he didn't own a television – and tuned it to a 'soccer' match as he studied the clock, which now read eleven twenty-three.

He opened the paper and discarded most of it, starting with the front section; the news was what the Powers dictated, and he wouldn't believe it – or care - if the front page contained an announcement about the end of the world. He scanned the back pages for gossipy tidbits from home, trustworthy because they were irrelevant, and then lost himself in the sports news. Never a follower as a younger man, he'd become an avid Rangers fan since his 'retirement' from International Operations, and had even wagered on a few games in the local pub before he'd been banned.

Well, not banned, really; he'd simply tired of the patrons smiling behind their hands at his Nova Scotian accent, and he'd addressed them at large, telling them that, to _his_ ears, they all sounded like a bunch of bloody Englishmen. He supposed it would be some time yet before the proprietor would be willing to serve him again.

The clock read eleven fifty-five. _Close enough._ He reopened the single-malt and downed a quarter of it at a go, then wiped his streaming eyes and settled in again to wait for the delivery boy. After that, he decided wearily, he'd step out back and take a walk, and test his willpower in a different way.

Some time later, he heard a knock at the door. He'd ceased to look at the clock the moment the whiskey was at his lips, instead gauging the passage of time from the level of the bottle. He studied it now. _Half full still. He's early._

But something was off about the boy's knock: instead of the usual side-of-the-fist pounding sometimes necessary to wake him, this request for entry was sharp and light and polite-sounding. His mood changed from detached interest to uneasy suspicion as he rose. _I've lived like a hermit since they let me go. They wouldn't have come for me._ But the discomfort grew until another thought surfaced. _If it was them, they wouldn't have bothered about knocking. _But his nerves still sang as he parted the front curtains.

Instead of the delivery boy's bicycle, an auto stood in the gravel lane that ended in front of his door. His unease rose another notch. He distrusted visitors, even when he was fairly sure they hadn't come to kill him. He opened the door halfway, and the can-I-help-you died of fear on its way to his lips.

A young girl in a dark wool coat and cap regarded him without expression. "Hello, Alistair."

His vision shrank to a tunnel focused on her face. His lips pursed to say her name, but just then he couldn't have spoken to save his life.

She lifted an eyebrow and turned the corners of her mouth up in the suggestion of a smile, neither of which he'd ever seen her do. "You _remember_ me." While he struggled to find his voice, she added, "Kind of a surprise, I bet."

Then the words came. "What are ye doing here?"

Behind her, dark spots began to speckle the car's dusty windshield. She looked elaborately up at the sky. "Getting wet. May I?"

_As if I could stop you._ He stepped aside.

She stepped in and removed the cap, uncovering the boyishly short blonde hair he remembered. She looked around, and her faint smile disappeared. "Cleaning girl hasn't been in lately?"

"Dismissed her." _Simply stopped coming, actually. How long have they been watching me? Stupid question. They've been watching me forever. _"What…" He stopped and began again. "Why did they send you?"

"They didn't." She righted a tipped bookend on a shelf. "You might say I'm an independent agent these days." She turned to him. "Curious. I practically had to stage a demonstration before Andy recognized me. But you knew me as soon as you opened the door."

"Andy?"

She nodded. "Sergeant Grissom. Griss." She ghosted through the sitting room without stepping on a thing and disappeared into the kitchen. He could hear the cupboard doors opening and closing. "Pretty bare in here."

"It's delivery day," he said before he thought. He tried to think of a way to warn the lad off; he was sure she wouldn't permit witnesses. He was still at the open door, and she was in the next room and out of sight. Might he bolt for it?

_Don't be stupid. You wouldn't get ten meters._ "I'm going to the bathroom. All right?"

"It's your house, Alistair." She added something too low to catch, but he didn't ask her to repeat.

He locked the bathroom door, for all the good it would do, and sat on the toilet until the shakes came and went. When he felt steady enough, he opened the door and looked out. She was nowhere in sight, but he heard clinking and thumping noises from the kitchen. He couldn't imagine what she was doing in there, but perhaps the noise might cover his escape. He put on a coat, went to the back door, and eased it open.

"Going somewhere?"

He jumped. Her voice was a step behind him.

"Ah, just testing the air. The rain's stopped for now." An idea occurred. It was only the thought of the boy's peril that gave him the courage to put it into action. "Why don't we go for a walk?"

Her eyes searched his for a moment. She had gray-blue eyes, very pretty. He'd once thought he saw trust in those eyes, long ago. _Just before you left her to die._ "All right," she said. "Let me get my coat."

He blurted, "Why do ye bother?"

She smiled again, more widely than before. "And what would someone think, seeing me out without a coat?" She fetched it from a chair back and shrugged into it, pulling her hat from a pocket as she returned. "Let's go."

He led her along the path that started at his back door and wound among mossy outcroppings and small, stunted trees; the wind never died here. They tended southerly as they walked a gentle decline falling towards the sea. He'd always trod this path alone, but over the past three years, his unsteady feet had made the path wide enough for two, barely.

He started when she slipped her arm through his – to keep him from running, no doubt. "Andy said you lived on a golf course. I was picturing one of those retirement communities with little condos fencing in the greens."

He swallowed. "The land belongs to the Macrihanish Golf Club, right enough, but they don't use it all. The cottage was here when they bought the parcel."

"I wonder if he was employing a little misdirection. He didn't want to tell me where you were, at first. It took a lot of persuasion."

_I'll bet,_ he thought, and carefully turned his mind from dwelling on images of that 'persuasion.' _The poor sod. He should have just told her and had done._ He worked his tongue and swallowed to wet his throat. "I suppose you've got questions for me as well."

"Quite a few." She pulled closer. "But they can wait."

_Maybe not._

"You come this way often?"

"Almost every day. Great view," he said, gesturing towards the misty sky and the indistinct horizon.

She giggled, startling him into a momentary lapse of concentration.

"No, really," he said. "On a clear day, if I look to the southwest, I can see Ireland." He stared off into the haze. "And if I look due west, whether it's clear or not, I sometimes see Canada."

"You miss it very much. I can hear it in your voice." She tilted her face up to him. "You must be so tired of hiding."

He nodded, unable to speak. They approached the cliff where the path ended. The gray sea stretched off into the mist and disappeared. A hundred meters below, he could hear the waves spending themselves on the narrow beach.

He slipped his arm out of hers. "Wait here a moment." He half expected her to grab him, but she let him walk ahead to the edge. He turned to face her. "Don't come any closer. Hear me out."

Her eyes widened in a perfect mimicry of alarm. "What are you doing?"

"Giving myself a choice." The crashing of the waves below was much louder here. He leaned back into the wind. "I'm not afraid to die, not really. But I'm verra fraid of pain. Ask your questions, and I promise to answer any I'm comfortable with. When we're done, I'll just step back."

The wind slacked for a moment, or perhaps it was just the drink, but he rocked back and almost fell. She took a step towards him and stopped. He steadied and went on. "Everybody knows I'm a sot. When I don't answer the door, the boy will call the constable. They'll find a well-worn path to this cliff, and me at the bottom of it. No evidence of foul play." He watched her expression smooth out into the doll mask he remembered, no more pretense. "I know I owe you, maybe more than this. But it's all I'm prepared to pay."

She was still as a mannequin for a long moment. "Well," she said, her voice barely audible above the wind. "So that's why you've been so jumpy. I thought it was just surprise and booze nerves." Then she folded her arms and turned her back on him.

He almost stepped back in surprise. "What are ye _doin_?"

She took a step towards the cottage, then another. "Leaving. If you really want to k-k-kill yourself, you're not using me for an excuse." At the third step, she fell to her knees and shivered. "You were my only friend in that awful place. How could you think I'd ever hurt you?"

January 2 1998

Eastern Nevada

She roused from standby mode, alerted by a change in her environment. She was still in her box, but it was no longer being jostled. Her internal clock showed that she had been locked inside it for sixty-eight hours, twelve minutes, and in motion for most of that time. The heavy steel container's insulation stopped almost all sound, but a high-pitched whine came faintly through its door as it was lowered, and she felt the floor thump as it touched down. Then the box was tilted again for a short time as it was turned and bumped. Finally, it was righted and brought to rest.

Voices came to her through the walls for the first time ever; she deduced that the speakers were very close, and their voices were pitched higher than normal. One of them belonged to Gunnery Sergeant Grissom: "What are you _doing_? Just leave it in the safe."

"No," Alistair said. She could hear the faint beeps from the combination lock as he pressed the buttons. "I'm _not_ leaving her in this fookin box."

"Chrissakes. It's a _machine_. And a damn dangerous one. Why take the chance?"

"Because, dangerous or not, we made her." The lock popped, but he didn't turn the handle to open the door. "Griss, if we can create something like this in our image, and treat it as shabbily as we have, and then finish with it by throwing it into the dark to die alone and wondering… we've got no right to hope for God's mercy, I'm thinking."

The handle turned, the latch clicked, and the door opened. Alistair stood at the opening, not 'smiling,' which was unusual; neither did he address her with his usual query about being a 'good girl' today. She wondered if she'd displeased him in some way.

As usual, Gunnery Sergeant Grissom stood just in view behind him, his 'gun' pointed over Alistair's shoulder at her. The device was not a projectile weapon like the ones that had been used on her during Test 502; but the man's handling showed it to be an artifact of similar purpose.

Alistair stepped back. "Come on oot, darlin."

She stepped out, studying him. Alistair's changed demeanor and elevated outputs gave rise to certain questions. She would have asked them, if the Sergeant had been out of hearing; when Alistair had learned of her injunction against unnecessary speech, he had told her she could ask him anything, as long as they couldn't be overheard. Such occasions were rare, but she'd taken advantage of every one of them, even though she often didn't understand his answers.

They were inside a large building, poorly lighted and above ground; she could hear the soft wind outside, different from the ventilators in the lab. The interior contained a great many objects covered with dusty translucent tarps. She dismissed her surroundings from her attention and focused on her handlers, trying to glean information from their anomalous outputs.

Grissom spoke over his weapon, if weapon it was. It was the first time he'd ever addressed her. "We're leaving. You stay right here. Guard this place. If somebody with no business here comes in, don't let him out alive, especially if he tries to take something. Understand?"

"Yes," she said. "I understand. No unauthorized entry, exit, or removal of artifacts." She waited, expecting further instructions for determining authorization, but they weren't forthcoming, and she wasn't allowed to inquire.

Alistair stepped between her and the Gunnery Sergeant, completely masking her from his fire. The soldier's heartrate spiked, and he shouted, "Out of the _way_, dammit!"

"_Piss_ off, Griss!" Alistair said with equal force. He placed a palm on her cheek and leaned over to touch her forehead with his own. It occurred to her that he was close enough to put her arms around; her hands rose a centimeter before programming checked the motion. It wasn't the first time her no-contact injunction had been challenged by some mysterious impulse, but the alarm that had ensued when she'd kicked Randall in the crotch had strengthened the command.

With their foreheads still touching, he said in a low voice, "Just another test, Buttercup. Someone will be along to collect you. Conserve your power and stick it out. _Wait_."

She judged that they were private enough for a question. She looked up into his eyes, which she'd learned were useful outputs as well as inputs. "When will you come for me?"

His pupils contracted, and his heart jumped. "I don't know. It won't be me or Griss, likely. But they're bound to come to their senses and send someone for you. I just hope to God it's someone kinder." He turned away.

Reacquiring her, Sergeant Grissom said in a shaky voice, "You exceeded your orders, Bryce. Big time. And you're _trashing _protocol." His heartbeat, arrhythmic in times of agitation, slowed unevenly as his odd chemical emissions dissipated. She deduced he was recovering from a fright. His attitude towards her was another mystery. She hypothesized that he was easily frightened, and he had thus been given the 'gun' for reassurance.

"Bollocks, Griss. Who would you report me to? Seabrook's vanished, and none of us knew who he got our orders from. The project's finished; this was our final detail. When we get back, we'll already have new assignments. If we ever meet again, inside the Shop or out, we'll pretend the last fourteen months never happened. Give it a rest." Alistair walked past the armed man towards the big doors leading outside, from which came the sound of an idling engine. The sergeant followed, walking backwards with his gun trained on her.

She felt a desire to alleviate the upset the two men felt; she discovered that that desire was capable of overriding the weakest of her injunctions. Remembering Alistair's pleased reaction to her answer to his daily question, she said as the two men reached the door, "I'll be a good girl, I promise."

Alistair stumbled at the doorway. Grissom paused at the door, and his trigger finger took up a millimeter of slack. "Ah, fuck." The armed man took a final step back and slid the door closed. She heard the padlock rattle and click shut. Seventy seconds later, the idling engine changed pitch as the vehicle shifted gears, and the popping of tires on gravel commenced and receded. She listened to the vehicle for six minutes more, until its sounds faded beyond her hearing.

Cantyre County, North Channel, Scotland

He felt lightheaded. The stony outcrop he stood on seemed to shift beneath his feet. "I was no friend."

She was still on her knees. "You were the only one who really spoke to me. You saved my life in that warehouse three different ways. I was there for six years, Alistair. If you hadn't told me to conserve power, Andy's orders would have had me dead long before. If you hadn't told me someone would come for me, I would have killed the man who came to rescue me. And if you'd left me in that box, he never would have found me."

His own voice sounded far away. "How did you get Griss to tell you about me?"

"I asked. He thought it was a bad idea, that I shouldn't go chasing the past. But he's guilting over me, kind of, and he can't say 'no' to me." He heard a series of faint beeps, followed by faint ringing: a cellphone call. She tossed the phone over her shoulder towards him in a high arc. "It's for you."

He reached for it, stepping away from the cliff's edge unthinking to catch it with both hands. It rang once more, then picked up. "_Hello? Annie? That you?_" A well-remembered voice.

He watched her. She wasn't moving. He returned his attention to the phone. "Griss? That you?"

"_Bryce? Son of a bitch. Is she with you?_"

"Yes. I'm on her phone." He felt lightheaded: adrenaline letdown, perhaps, or the drink catching up with him finally.

"_I know. Put her on._"

The back of her head swung side to side.

"Ah, she doesn't want to come to the phone. She wants us to talk. Griss… is she all right?"

The man on the other phone lowered his voice. "_Just what I was about to ask you. Don't hurt her, Alistair. She's been through enough._"

"I heard that," she said. "He's still overprotective, isn't he?"

He returned his fading attention to the phone. "Griss. How do you know each other?"

"_Chance meeting._ _Tremendous luck. You were right all along, Bryce. God forgive us for what we did. Tell her Drew misses her like crazy._"

"Drew?"

"_My grandson._"

He felt even fainter. "I, I have to go now." He dropped the phone and fell.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke to the smell of cleaning products and cooking. He was lying on the sitting room couch, which was odd, since it had been too laden with truck to sit on for months. His eyes wandered about the room. From where he lay, everything in sight was picked up, put away, clean and fresh. The carpet was bright and unstained.

He heard her low voice from the door. "Thank you, Sean. It would have taken me twice as long to put the groceries in the cupboards by myself. I'd have had to get up and down on a chair."

"My pleasure, Anne, truly." He recognized the voice of Sean, his grocer's twenty-year-old delivery boy. "I'm very glad to meet you. And glad someone's here to look after him at last."

"It took a while to find him. He just dropped out of sight, didn't tell a soul."

"That's no way for a man to treat his family." A pause. "No way to treat himself, either, if I may be so bold."

"It was all over a girl. He lost her. It was so tragic. Not his fault, but he blames himself."

"Ah," the lad said, caught up in the story. "Well. That puts a different spin on things, I guess. Folks around here just had him figured for a tosser."

She giggled and traded a few more words before she sent him off. As she shut the door, she said, "You've been awake awhile."

He felt too good to move. "Long enough to hear that tear-jerker you told him."

She leaned over and smoothed his hair. "Every word true. Just not entirely the truth. Hungry? I'm not up on local cuisine, but my beef stew has gotten good reviews at home."

He hadn't eaten anything resembling a scratch-cooked meal since he'd come here. His stomach growled at the thought, then turned over for another reason. He swallowed. "I suppose ye've poured the last of it out."

She studied him with heavy-lidded eyes. "No. And I didn't cancel your order, Alistair. I just added decent food to it."

He thought furiously. Sean must have already been on his way when the two of them were at the cliff. "When?"

"Before we took our walk, while you were in the bathroom. The number's on the fridge."

"So it is. Taking a bit of a chance, aren't you? Letting folk see you here?"

She shook her head. "IO has no records of anything that went into that warehouse. If it ever kept them, they were purged years ago. Our year together is just a vague and misleading entry in your file."

"Wha- how?"

"Miles Craven. The warehouse and everything in it was his personal project, separate from IO's. You remember Research Directorate's compartmentalization, and their paranoid secrecy. Made it easy to transfer personnel in and out of it without anyone the wiser."

"Back to the original subject. Whiskey?"

"Coming right up." She raised a forefinger. "_After_ a pint of stew and two slices of fresh-baked bread."

Half an hour later, she regarded him critically as he pushed his refilled bowl to the center of the kitchen table, still half full. "You're done already?"

"Little girl, that was the biggest meal I've had in months, as well as the best. If you want me to keep it down, you'll not force another bite down me." He leaned back to ease the unfamiliar tightness in his shrunken belly. "Thank you, Buttercup."

She dimpled. "Never thought I'd hear you call me that again."

"Does it earn me a bottle of Scotch?"

"Hmp." She turned and stood on tiptoe to retrieve a bottle from his cupboard. But she didn't give it to him. Instead, she produced a shotglass he didn't know he had and filled it, then set the tiny vessel before him.

His eyes went from the impossibly small portion to her face. "What's this about, then?"

She sat opposite. "It's about giving your poor liver a rest. The shape it's in, it doesn't metabolize alcohol properly any more, so you can get a perfectly serviceable buzz on a fraction of what you're used to drinking." As he reached for it, she laid a finger on the rim. "Sip it like a gentleman. It's Glenlivet, after all."

He drew it towards him, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed half of it; it was the best he could do. "Going to wean me off, that it?"

She shook her head. "I won't be here long enough to dry you out. I just want to keep you alive until I leave." She dimpled again. "It would be nice if you were able to carry on a conversation, too."

He set the glass down on the table. "Don't suppose you think much of me, seeing me like this."

"Addiction's not a moral flaw, Alistair. It's crossed wires in your survival instinct. An addict thinks he'll die without the very thing that's killing him. He feels the exact same urgency chasing his fix that a man twenty feet underwater feels as he seeks the surface."

"Too right." He reached for the glass, to find her finger on it again.

"But people conquer that instinct all the time, with training, if they want to bad enough. Firemen run into burning buildings, and skydivers jump out of airplanes. If _you_ want to bad enough, someday you'll conquer your fear of living sober."

"Hmph. And why should I deny all my other fears the pleasure of its company?"

She smiled at that and lifted her finger, but he didn't raise the glass. Instead, he asked, "So, how long are you staying, then?"

"A night at least. Maybe two."

"This cottage has one bedroom, and one bed. You spend the night here, it'll set tongues wagging. Don't think for a minute Sean will keep it to himself you're here. Who does he think ye are?"

She laid a finger on her cheek. "Well, I don't know _how _he came up with it, but he seems to think I'm a half-sister our father sired out of wedlock and you haven't seen in years."

He scoffed. "He'd a been fifty when he put you in her."

"Stranger things have happened. Was your mother still living?"

"No. Yes, I mean, but not around."

"Mom really should have let Dad make an honest woman of her, but she's _so_ independent. I don't think you ever met."

He shook his head, smiling. "Good story, but it's not enough. I'll have neighbors hanging on my bell all day until you leave, and for days after, just for a look at you." _People who haven't so much as waved at me in the street for months._ "I'll have to show you off in public. Put paid to the worst of the gossip to buy us some time alone."

"All right. Where?"

"The only public place I go is pubs. There's a little spot up the road called 'the Southender' where the locals gather. No doubt you passed it on the way here."

"It looked quaint. But won't it seem odd that I don't take anything but water?"

"I'll just say you're from California. Nothing's too outlandish for those folk."

She quirked a smile. "If I come back, I'll wear a mystic power crystal on a chain around my neck."

"Perfect. But of course everyone knows that girls from California can't go a night without sex, so you'll have to put up with advances from the worst sort."

The smile grew dimples, and she leaned back. "Guess I should have let Jack buy me a ring."

"Jack?"

"My husband."

Stupidly, he said, "Husband? A man?"

Her eyes got sleepy-looking. "Definitely."

"Does he ... I mean ... do you ..."

"Very well, I'm told. But perhaps that's just love talking."

"Well, I'll be dipped."

-0-

The Southender sounded busy, Alistair thought. Even standing outside, he could hear conversation and laughter through the heavy plank door. Occasionally, a single voice would rise above the background noise as a patron called to the proprietor or another barfly across the room.

Anna nudged him. "Are we going in, or should we wait for someone to open the door?"

"Not likely. Nobody's coming out for awhile. And considering the hour, I expect we're the last to arrive for the night. It's that sort of place. People come here and make a night of it. Everybody knows everybody else. It's our version of a community center, you might say." He pressed down on the latch and pushed the door open.

The watering hole measured about ten meters by thirty, and held about thirty people, a largish crowd for a weeknight. Sean sat at a table with a couple of his pals; Alistair was sure the pub had already heard everything the boy knew to tell, and likely a bit more. Patrons at the bar and tables glanced their way, and conversation faded as they stepped inside. But before it could die, the man behind the bar called out, "Alistair Bryce. So, you've finally crawled out of your cave to rejoin the world of men and hear human voices again. Even if they sound like a bunch of bloody Englishmen."

Alistair took off his cap and held it in both hands. "I come to apologize about that, Alex, to you and all present. Also, to show my little sister from the States a real Scottish pub and introduce her, if I haven't ruined her chances at a proper welcome."

"Of course not." Alex beckoned them to the bar. "But whether _you_ get through the door again depends on how you behave tonight. What's your name, little miss?"

Alistair's companion offered the barkeep a hand. "Anne. Pleased to meet you."

Alex took it, and it disappeared into his paw. "Faeilte. What'll you have, Anne? I have a small selection of wine a lady might like."

"Just water, if it's no trouble. I don't drink." She looked around and back at the proprietor, breaking out the dimples. "The atmosphere is intoxicating enough. This is my first time out of the States, unless you count Quebec."

"I surely do. How much time did you spend there?"

"About ten years. Mom moved us there when I was six."

"Ainsi, parlez-vous français bien?"

"Hardly. It's amazing how quick you forget with no one to talk to. Je peux à peine remonter une phrase maintenant."

Alex smiled as he poured water from a bottle into a glass. "Same here, Anne. School was a long time ago." He filled a small glass with Glenlivet for Alistair, then looked past them and raised his voice. "If there are any gentlemen in the house," he said, "perhaps you can find a table. An empty one, with plenty of room to put your elbows out."

Immediately, Sean and his friends stood, beers in hand, to approach the bar, smiling.

Anna said, "Oh, no, please."

Alistair joined in. "We're fine right-"

"And who taught ye your manners, Bryce?" Alex frowned. "You don't bring a lady into a place like this and drink at the bar."

One of the three leaned on the bar, on Anne's side opposite Alistair. "Pleasure, miss." Sean discreetly nudged him with an elbow.

Alistair felt a strange twinge. Jealousy? Protectiveness? Ridiculous, whatever it was. "Fine, then. How much, Alex?"

"I'm buying hers tonight. And your first is on the house. Also your last, since they're one and the same. Manners, Alistair."

When they were settled into seats, Alistair said to her, "I'll nurse it, don't worry."

She smiled. "I'll probably worry anyway. I'm feeling very proprietary towards you right now." She closed her hand over the one around his glass and gave it a little squeeze – a hand that he'd watched crush a golf ball in another life. "Why did you come here? You don't need to hide, you know. No one's after you. They're done with you. It would be bad for morale if…" she glanced around "…something happened."

"And who'd ever know?" He started to toss the drink into his throat and caught himself, taking a tiny sip instead. The fluid spread warmth all through him. _Is this what it's like to drink like a normal person, instead of one who's chasing oblivion like the White Rabbit down its hole?_ "I didn't leave a single person behind who cares whether I live or die."

She looked across the table at him with eyes grown large and dark. "Oh, that is _so_ not true."

"Well." He stared into the glass. "I really left you behind, didn't I?"

"Obviously not." She smiled. "Here I am."

A young man appeared over her shoulder: Stephen Watson, a boy with a reputation among the local girls that was very good or very bad, depending on the sort of girl you talked to. He wore a green Celtics jersey, which meant that a Rangers fan like Alistair couldn't talk football with him without risking a broken nose. He held a dart in his hand. "Care for a game, pretty lady?" His smile was indecently suggestive. "Or do they play another game where you come from?"

She looked from the boy to him and back. "Well, where I come from, the most popular bar game is billiards. You go to a bar, you're more likely to find a mechanical bull than a dartboard." She smiled up at him. "But I pick things up pretty quick."

Stephen's smile changed in a way that made Alistair clench his teeth. Stephen was champion of the local league. "Care to make it a sporting game, then?"

"A bet, you mean?" She looked uncertain. "I don't have much local money."

He smiled a little wider and bent low, his cheek nearly touching her hair. "Oh, I'm sure we could come up with an exchange of some sort."

She blinked. "Well… let's start with money."

"That'll be fine." He straightened. "For a start."

After he led her towards the board and a pack of young studs, Tom, another regular, dropped into her seat, mug in hand. "Christ, Alistair. You really gonna let her go off with him?"

Alistair touched the glass to his lips and took a cautious swallow. "He won't have the price of a beer in his pocket ten minutes from now."

Tom grinned. "Heh. Shoulda guessed, what with that story she dropped on him. 'Mechanical bulls.' What a rip."

"She wasn't kidding about that, actually."

The man stared at him. "Pull the other one. Mechanical bulls?" Tom was one of those folk who likely would die without ever traveling a day's walk from where he was born. He didn't read anything but the paper, and was generally suspicious of outsiders. Alistair had been a long time getting friendly with him, and was glad the man hadn't been in the pub the night Alistair had been banned.

Alistair nodded seriously. "They ride em. Try to hang on for seven seconds before they get tossed off."

"Christ." Tom's eyes were huge.

Alistair kept his poker face on while grinning inwardly at the image that must be in Tom's mind: a robot bull rampaging through a pub like The Southender, a drunken patron clinging to its back for dear life, only to end up flying through the air to crash onto the floor or a table. "Oh, it's great sport. Always draws a crowd to cheer the riders on."

Tom shook his head. "And I thought rugby players were bloody lunatics."

A sudden chorus of shouts sounded from the dartboard crowd.

-0-

"Well, we're home." Anne swung the car around to train the headlights on the cottage's door. "Come on, I know you're not asleep."

"No, indeed." He shifted against the passenger door and closed his eyes again. "But I'm verra comfortable."

"That accent thickens up at the oddest times."

"When I'm tired or upset, or so I'm told." He slumped a little further in the seat. "Praps I'll just sleep here."

"I think not." She got out and slammed the door. A moment later, the passenger door snapped open. He would have spilled out onto the gravel if she hadn't caught him. He looked up into her face, upside-down and smiling down at him. "Walk or be dragged?"

"Why not carry me?"

"Cuz dragging you is less conspicuous and more uncomfortable. Specially if I drag you by your heels."

"All right then," he mock-grumbled as he got himself upright and swung his legs out of the car. "Do you suppose I could have a bit a that stew before bed?"

She laughed, a whispery sound that almost disappeared in the wind. "Bed? I was planning to keep you up all night talking."

"I'll be hard-pressed to finish eating before my face is in the bowl. Give a fella a little break. I'm not used to dancing anymore."

"You didn't have to spend all that time on your feet," she said with a little smile as they walked arm in arm to the cottage. "Sean or Stephen would have kept me entertained."

"Or any of a dozen others, I expect." He found his feet and shuffled to the door with her close by his side. "You say you're staying another night?"

"I said I _might_. But now, I really think I should. Alistair, what's 'handfasting'?"

"Eh?"

"Sean's sister is handfasting tomorrow. There's a reception. I accepted for both of us. If you don't want to…"

Alistair was sure the invitation hadn't been meant to include him; no one here who knew him would invite him someplace where drink was being served. He resolved to not embarrass his little … _friend_? "Sounds like fun. Handfasting's a sort of marriage ceremony for folk who want to pledge each other without the church or the magistrates getting in on it. It's got popular with the younger crowd because there's no age of consent."

"Hm." She went through the door first at his urging and switched on the light. Once again, he was filled with wonder and sadness at the change she'd wrought to his little hideaway. He inhaled slowly, drinking in the mild scents of cleaning and cooking replacing the odors of dirt and spoiled food and general decay. She turned him towards the bathroom. "I think you should shower and get comfy. What do you sleep in?"

"Err… what I got up in, usually."

"Hmm." She moved towards the kitchen. "I sent almost everything you owned to the laundry this afternoon. But you're not climbing into those clean sheets in your street clothes. If you can't find something better, it's undies for you."

"Not under my roof for a night, and acting like a nagging wife already." But he headed for the shower. The curtain was a sort of dusty rose, he noted; quite pretty. He smiled at the sparkling tile and fixtures as he lathered up under the stream. When was the last time he'd actually enjoyed a shower? _Got to talk that cleaning girl into coming round again, before I'm hip deep in garbage once more. Or, God forbid, perhaps I should start picking up after myself._

The door opened partway, and a pair of gray gym shorts and sweatshirt were tossed in. "Here. They're mine, but skinny as you are now, I bet they'll fit."

"Great," he muttered as he shut off the water. "Half the sods at that watering hole we just left expect me to get in your pants tonight. And now-"

"I didn't travel five thousand miles to listen to crude jokes. Are you going to go to sleep or talk?"

"Touchy." He toweled off, the soft sweet-smelling fabric a delight to his nose. "Sorry, Buttercup. I'm done in, really. Tomorrow, I'm all yours. All right?"

"All right. Sweet dreams." The door closed.

Some time later, he woke in the dark, lying on his side with his knees drawn up. Something warm and soft pressed up against his back. "Shh," she whispered. An arm rested on his waist and another slipped under his neck, the hands meeting over his sternum. "It's all right, it's okay."

His cheek and ear nearest the mattress were wet. His throat felt tight and his nose runny. He placed his hands over the tiny ones on his chest. "I've been such a fool. Such a weakling. A failure."

"No. You've done so well, Alistair."

"I've lived in fear all my adult life. My whole life is a waste. I've helped do research that could change the world, and watched it all be buried or twisted into some new way to kill, or herd people like sheep."

"_No._ You've been a man trapped in circumstances beyond his control. You stood up to them for me whenever you could. But you're wounded. Creator, how I wish I knew what to do."

He drew a breath and let it out with a shudder. "So do I. I'm all right now. You can let me up."

"Would you mind if I stay? Just like this. I don't want anything else." He felt wetness on the back of his neck, and his breath stilled with wonder. "I've wanted to hold you for so long."

-0-

He woke to the smell of coffee. He was alone in the bed. He rolled to the edge and planted his feet on the floor, waiting for the usual morning nausea. It put in an appearance, but only as a ghost of its usual self. A trip to the bathroom was enough to banish it. He took a leak, ran a sweet-smelling washcloth over his face and neck, brushed his teeth, drank a glass of water from a clean glass, and stepped through the bathroom door, feeling like a younger man.

Anna met him before he'd got two steps. "Not quite yet. Back in there and shave."

"I shaved yesterday."

"And you'll shave tomorrow. Shoo."

When he left the bathroom a second time, he returned to the bedroom to dress. Then he headed for the kitchen. "My God," he said when he arrived. An array of plates on the counter held scrambled eggs, fried bacon and sausage links, shredded potatoes. "An American breakfast?"

"It's the only kind I know how to make. Well, unless you count quiche or crepes. Or croissants, I can do that too. You'd rather have something else?"

"I don't eat breakfast at all. And you made enough for three."

"I guess I'm used to cooking for teenagers. Eddie or Caitlin could down all this alone."

"You've got kiddies too? Where did _they_ come from?"

"I'll skip the obvious joke. Jack has a son from a previous marriage who lives with us. He also has four wards, a boy and three girls, children of dead friends. Jack is an IO tough guy, like Andy."

He sat at the table. "I haven't eaten an egg at breakfast in years."

"Don't try your stomach's tolerance, then. Toast, maybe? Oatmeal?"

"Toast and coffee, maybe. Have you learned to eat too, then?"

"Only for show. But I'll sit with you, if you want company." She stuck two slices in the toaster and poured a cup. "Otherwise, I'm going to get busy in the kitchen."

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning and cooking. When I leave here, your fridge is going to be full. And if any of it spoils before you eat it, I'm going to be very unhappy with you. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black."

"Hmph. Seems like every guy I know takes his coffee black." She set the cup on the table in front of him. "Ready to talk a little?"

He sipped. "Fire away. Might need a drink before we're through."

"We'll see. How did I get my name?"

"Name? You mean, why do I call you Buttercup?"

She smiled like sunshine. "We can start with that one."

He shrugged. "Don't know, really. It's a pretty little flower, is all. And it seems… innocent."

"I'm far from innocent, Alistair."

"You always seemed innocent to me. I knew that would change before they were done. Their plans for you seemed clear enough, even if they were taking a mighty roundabout way to get there."

"Hm. And my real one?"

"Real one?"

She smiled. "_Anna_, you dolt."

He frowned. "You never had a name. You were just 'the test subject.' Seabrook would have wigged out if we'd given you a name."

"Alistair, it was Dr. Seabrook's name for me." The toast popped up with a soft chime. As she spread jam on the bread, she said, "How did you get assigned to the project?"

"Don't know. I was between assignments and this was the one I got. Just showed up on my desk one day, no explanation. I had six hours to pack and wrap things up, then I was winging my way across the country to that Godforsaken desert."

"And the others?"

"The same. Except for Seabrook. He didn't talk about it. Didn't talk about anything but the business at hand, really, even when you were locked away in that damned box. I got the impression he and Randall knew each other from somewhere before, likely another project, but you didn't ask about such things at the Shop."

She nodded. "Do you know where any of them are? I know you and Andy kept in touch."

"Just Christmas cards. I'm not sure I sent one last year, now I think of it."

"You didn't. But your address hasn't changed. How about Randall, or Dr. Seabrook?"

"Not Seabrook. Randall might know where to find him, I suppose." He looked up at her. "You're not thinking of paying Randall a visit?"

"Definitely. I want to learn where to find Dr. Seabrook, and whatever else he knows." She dropped the dishes in the sink and began wiping the counter. "And he and I have some unfinished business."

He felt cold. "Buttercup, what he did, he paid for with interest. He'll never get out of that damned chair. Let it go."

"What _he_ did? Alistair, I thought you knew me better than that."


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday November 12 2006

Georgetown Delaware

"Good game, Art," the man in the wheelchair rolled up, grinning. "You guys might even take us next time. Not."

Arthur Randall grinned back at him from his own chair as he slipped on his windbreaker. "Put your money where your mouth is?"

"Pah. Your money, you'd never miss the biggest bet I could stake."

They were in an outdoor basketball court near one of the park's small vehicle lots. Randall pivoted his wheelchair and rolled alongside his friend until they reached the man's car. "Then bet something else. Next Sunday at each other's churches."

"Nitwit. I'm Jewish. How about dinner? Becky'd love to feed you."

"And introduce me to her sister. No thanks, I've got a girlfriend."

"If you say so," the man said dubiously. "She sure doesn't come around much."

"Watching me roll around getting sweaty on Sunday afternoons just isn't her thing. Let me give you a call later. We'll all go do something."

"Sure you don't want a ride?"

"No, thanks. She's picking me up."

Randall watched his friend heave himself into his car, then folded the wheelchair for him and helped stow it in the back seat. He watched the car drive away and waved while he formulated the excuse he'd use to cancel. He wasn't ready to tell anyone that he and Seiko had called it quits – that Seiko had suggested they back off a bit, rather, but Randall was sure it meant the same thing.

He let his eyes roam about the park, taking in the sensual pleasures of early fall. Autumn was his favorite time of year. The season was coming late this year, and most of the trees were still full and green, but enough of them had begun to shed to provide some color and scent.

He cast his mind back, remembering this place as he'd first seen it: a block of abandoned houses within sight of the downtown office buildings, taken from their absentee owners for taxes. The buildings had been scheduled for demolition but were so far down on the cash-strapped city's list of concerns that they probably would have fallen down on their own first. A few homeless souls had haunted the old houses, but mostly it had been a lair for street criminals and crack heads, a place regular people avoided. While Randall had been house-hunting, it had been on a direct route between his rented rooms and the offices of his realtor and banker, and his driver had taken him past it several days in a row, apologizing that street construction was making it difficult to find a safe route. A vague irritation had taken Randall as they'd cruised by the dilapidated structures with the downtown high-rises looming over them in the background, and he'd resolved to do something.

A conversation with his new pastor and a city councilman and a sizeable pledge had been all that was necessary to get the ball rolling. He'd bought the properties from the city and bulldozed them, and the blighted area had become a community-reclamation project. Local businesses had provided materials, local civic groups plenty of volunteer labor. Randall had provided the money necessary to fill the gaps and keep things running.

He hadn't touched a rake or shovel or wheelbarrow, of course, and the first time he'd tried to use a hammer had ended at the first aid station. But he was always around to deliver a message or a cold drink, and disagreements smoothed out when Randall rolled up. And being at the work site all the time allowed him to put his personal stamp on the project: he'd made sure that any transplanted trees brought in were mature specimens, rather than saplings, by shouldering the huge cost difference; he didn't want the park to look like a work in progress for the next ten years.

The final result was seven acres of rolling grass, broad sidewalks, shady picnic spots, and recreational structures for children, teens, and adults, all wheelchair-accessible and a short walk from both the city center and the main bus terminal. He'd sold it to the city for a dollar.

He nodded, feeling a rare sense of satisfaction. He knew a few people had believed he'd done it for a tax write-off. But he hadn't. Every time he came here, he reflected that this place was a more worthwhile accomplishment than anything he'd done for IO. He was about to turn and head for the bus stop when a pair of hands covered his eyes from behind.

"Seiko," he said, surprised but very pleased. Smiling, he reached up to take one of her hands when he realized something was different about them: too small, and the fingernails were too long.

"You have someone," a girl's voice said behind him. "That's wonderful. I was hoping."

He stopped with the girl's hand in his but still over his eye. Cautiously he said, "Do I know you?"

"Don't recognize the voice? No, I suppose not." The hands came off his eyes and a young woman stepped around to face him, unsmiling. "How about now? I've got a little bet with myself."

He studied her. Short, twentyish, slender; short blonde hair, blue eyes. Pretty, but a stranger. He shook his head. "Sorry, no. Sure you haven't got me mixed up with someone else?"

The girl's eyebrows drew together. "Very sure. Funny, I was guessing you'd recognize me right away. From your old job."

A spark of unease kindled. "Miss, I haven't worked in years. You couldn't have been out of high school. I'm sure we never worked together…" But she _did_ look familiar, now that he'd taken a better look, but he couldn't place her.

"Okay, bigger hint: Alistair Bryce, Andrew Grissom, and Dr. Seabrook."

He felt a flash of recognition, and a prickling sensation on his forearms. "Oh. You must be her daughter."

The honey-colored eyebrows lifted. "Daughter?"

"Of the woman they modeled it on. You look very much like her." He felt weight settle on his face and shoulders. "You're from the Shop, I presume. What do they want from me?"

"Well, first let's clear something up. I'm not the model, or her daughter. I'm the 'it'." Her face smoothed out and became as blank as a mannequin's. "Good-morning-Alistair." The voice was now a deep expressionless monotone. "I-promise-to-be-a-good-girl-today."

His breath stopped, and he gripped the wheels of his chair. A worthless gesture; he couldn't have outrun it with two good legs.

"Don't be afraid," it said softly, its voice inflected like a human being's again. "God. Why do they always think I want to hurt them?" It dropped to its knees at his useless feet and placed a hand on each of his tingling knees. "I'm sorry. You didn't do anything to deserve this. I'd never do it now. It was a stupid mistake. I was a child, I didn't know any better." The eyes misted. "Please forgive me."

Filled with wonder, he reached out to touch a tear. "Incredible. I never knew." He rubbed the bead of moisture between thumb and forefinger, too distracted for fear. "Great gimmick. Who wrote this?"

It blinked, wetting its cheeks. "What?"

"The program. The human mimicry routine. It's genius. Where did it come from?"

"It's mine, Randall. Self-programmed."

"The initial copycat program, I mean, not the mannerisms." He shook his head, and said to himself, "I knew Seabrook was good, but _this_… it could fool anybody."

It looked at him a moment longer, then stood and dabbed at its eyes. "Yes," it said. "The deception routine is good, all right. Sometimes I even fool myself."

"Why are you here? I thought IO was done with me."

"Think of it as a sort of exit interview, Randall. Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?"

"No. I'm comfortable here."

It displayed a very nice smile. "Out in the open, with plenty of casual witnesses? Trust _is_ hard to come by at the Shop, isn't it?" It glanced across a grassy area to a picnic shelter with a couple of tables underneath. "I'd prefer to sit. Looks more natural, less like a confrontation. Do you mind?"

It walked alongside him with a hand on his shoulder, which raised goosebumps all the way down his arms. Under the shelter's roof, the robot settled cross-legged on a bench facing him. It made an elaborate show of looking around at the joggers on the path and a couple of teenagers who'd claimed the basketball court, as if to say: _we're private, but not alone. All right?_

He studied its movements, fascinated by its new poise. It had always been eerily silent and efficient, but its creepy economy of movement had been replaced with a fluid grace that drew the eye. _Upgrades, _he thought._ How long ago was the project reinstated? _He hadn't spoken with Alistair since the lab mishap that had hospitalized him, but he'd learned a year later that the Nova Scotian was on another project, and had suspected the AI project had been discontinued. A year or so later, he'd heard about Seabrook and was sure it had.

"Were you angry?"

He frowned. "What?"

"Angry. At me." It gestured at his legs. "For that."

He shook his head, wondering who he was really talking to, who had supplied this thing's instructions, who it would repeat his words to. "Of course not. It was my fault. I was messing around with dangerous machinery I didn't understand."

"What's she like?"

"Eh?"

"Seiko. Your girlfriend. I assume girlfriend; you're not wearing a ring, and I know you're an only child."

"Um, Japanese-American. Mid thirties, glasses. Straight black hair, shoulder length. Five-three, maybe a buck twenty."

It _tsk_ed. "I'm not asking if you can pick her out of a lineup, Randall. _Honestly_. I mean, what's she like?"

Uneasily, he said, "She's a professor at the university, English Literature. She paints. We met at a lecture."

"Which of you is having second thoughts?"

"What?"

"I hear it in your voice."

_Hear it in my voice? _"Who at IO gives a rat's ass about my love life?"

Its face took on a grave expression. "Only me, Randall. I know you think you're talking to a machine, but just play along, why don't you? What can it hurt to pretend I'm a real girl?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "I guess I was pushing too hard. She's not sure. I can't give her kids, for one thing."

It nodded. "You're completely paralyzed, then?"

"No. It just hurts like hell to rise out of the chair for more than a few steps. Sex is manageable. But the testicles are gone. I take hormones, but…"

"You can't produce sperm. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that," he said, irritation replacing his unease.

"Because you don't like pity, or because a machine has no right to offer it? Does she talk about adopting?"

"What?" The sudden shift in the conversation derailed his anger.

"I would think that a woman who wanted to raise children with the man she loves wouldn't let a little biological impediment stop her."

He felt the muscles under his ears jumping. "What did you come for?"

"I have a few questions about our time together at IO."

"Then ask them," he said brusquely.

"Did you know any of the other researchers prior to the project?"

"No. Seabrook introduced us all, and the instructions he gave us about proper behavior in the lab kind of discouraged casual conversation when the... when you were out of the container. Made it hard to get friendly."

"So, you didn't know Dr. Seabrook?"

"Knew of him, is all. He had a reputation for genius in artificial intelligence. Everything was classified, of course, but there were still stories. They just didn't travel outside the walls."

"Why were you always laying hands on me? If you didn't think of me like that?"

Shocked, he said, "I'd never do that with a _real_ girl."

"Then why?"

"Just to give Grissom a hard time. I mean, the way he drooled over you was sick. If he'd ever gotten in an elevator alone with the girl they modeled you on, she'd have had to Mace him."

"I thought he was afraid of me."

"He was. But that wasn't enough to keep him from staring at your ass whenever your back was turned."

"I still don't understand. You did it to anger Andy?"

"Andy?"

"Sergeant Grissom." Its face lost all expression for a moment, an obvious glitch in its programming. _Guess the bugs aren't all worked out yet._ "Why would that make him angry?"

"Because he couldn't get close enough to touch you. Not that he would, probably, but you could tell he was thinking about it. Even though it embarrassed him. So I started messing around with you, touching you the way he was thinking about, trying to show him something. You never reacted, no matter what I did. It was like fondling a mannequin. I thought he'd see how ridiculous his little infatuation was and snap out of it, but he never did. Swear to God, I think now I must've been making him jealous instead. That last day, when I squeezed your rear end and watched him steam, Alistair said, 'A real girl would kick you in the balls for doing that,' and I said, 'Yeah, a real girl would,' looking right at Grissom. But he didn't get it. A little while later, I see the aiming dot on his play gun drop right between those little muffin tops on your chest. So I copped a feel, looking right at him the whole time. I was about to make some smart remark about how I couldn't decide if they were saline or silicone, but I never got the chance. Next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed."

"Because Alistair said a real girl wouldn't let you get away with it, and it tripped something in my programming."

"Yeah." He studied its face and posture; it looked very natural and relaxed. But who knew better than him how sudden and unexpected its reactions could be?

"What happened after? Did you retire?"

"Not right away." _Shouldn't you, or, rather, the ones who sent you, know this already? Why are you really here?_ "They hired me for my brains, after all. I worked from a wheelchair for three more years before they let me go."

"What do you spend your money on?"

"What?"

It eyed his clothes. "You live modestly for a millionaire. You don't even own a car. Do you hoard it?"

"I give a lot to charity. I paid for a new roof for my church last year." He shrugged. "But it's true, I don't spend much on myself. The portfolio value gets bigger every year." He smiled crookedly. "I'd put some into my old school's research department…"

"But if they ever discovered something important, IO'd suppress it." It smiled back, and he felt a weird flush as he realized he'd been _chatting_ with it. _I'm lonelier than I thought. I suppose I'll go home and start talking to the TV next._

"You called the Sergeant's weapon a 'toy gun'. Is it because it didn't shoot bullets?"

"It didn't do _anything_."

It blinked. "Beg pardon?"

"Have you ever seen a gadget IO calls a 'scrambler'?"

"Couple times," it admitted. "I thought it was a refinement of the rifle."

"I was on the team that developed it. We did it from original research… two years _after _the project with you folded up. That rifle was a prop."

It dropped its eyes. If it had been a human being, Randall would have believed it was thinking furiously. And perhaps it was, in its own fashion. He imagined electrons whizzing around in its skull like bits in a blender. "Why?"

"Besides bluffing you? I'm only guessing, but I'd say it was to remind us to keep our distance."

It pouted. "To keep you from getting sloppy and mistaking me for a real person, instead of a clever machine." It caught its lower lip between its teeth for a moment. "How did I get my name?"

"Name?" He repeated, confused.

"Dr. Seabrook called me 'Anna,' when I first came online. Just once."

"News to me. If anyone knew you had a name, it would have been him, though, I suppose."

It leaned forward, intent. "Why is that?"

"Because, if you had a name, he's probably the one who named you. I heard he was the head of your design team, back in the Eighties."

"Oh." Again, he marveled at its newfound ability to imitate human emotions; it looked completely taken back. "Where is he now? Do you know?"

"One of two places, if the Church is right. His ashes are in a cemetery in Petersburg, Virginia."

Once again, it seemed deep in thought. "How long ago?"

"Six years, give or take. None of us who knew went to the funeral. We weren't allowed."

"And you don't know anyone else from the project?"

"Just Bryce. He's in Europe somewhere, retired."

"Scotland, a little cottage near the Irish Sea. He drinks. I'm worried about him. I can give you his number. You should call."

"Worried." He took a breath. "This is… an incredible demonstration, I have to say. Sure makes the Turing test obsolete. I'm very impressed. But I'm also getting seriously creeped out. It's just _too_ real. Are we done here?"

It lifted its head, as if looking at something in the distance behind him. "Almost." It flowed off the bench and placed a knee on the seat between his legs.

He stiffened in sudden fear. _Dear God, please, no more, I've lost so much already…_

It wound its arms around his neck, resting its forearms on his shoulders. "You're doing a crappy job of pretending I'm a real girl, Randall. Put your arms around me."

Suddenly confused as well as afraid, he complied. Its 'flesh' was more realistic than he remembered: it had always been as soft and resilient as a human's, but now, instead of being ambient temperature, it was warm as well. Nevertheless, his own skin crawled at the touch.

"We're not waltzing, Randall. Hold me as if I was Seiko." He tightened his grip, pressing it against him until their faces were a hand's width apart. The steel-blue eyes bored into his. "Tilt your face."

He swallowed and tilted his head to the side. Voice shaking, he said, "Why are you doing this?"

"Don't panic. You can keep your lips closed." He felt a hand behind his head, trapping it as their faces came together. Their lips touched; Randall held his breath, waiting.

Its lips moved against his as it spoke, and he felt a wisp of breath on his cheeks. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enjoying your discomfort a little. Wicked of me, I know. Poor man, I'm not going to hurt you. This just had to look convincing."

"What are we doing?"

It tightened its grip further; its cheek slid along his until it was resting its chin on his shoulder. He caught a whiff of perfume. It ran its fingers through the hair at the back of his head and wound a lock on one finger. "What are we doing? Giving you some much-needed help. See, Randall, you're a fairly good-looking man, you're educated and intelligent and an upstanding guy – no pun intended." It pulled back, just enough to look him in the eye again, cheeks lifting until dimples appeared at the corners of its mouth. It mussed his hair. "Also, you're filthy rich. And I bet sex would be a lot more than 'manageable' with the right partner. Plenty of girls would think you're a great catch."

The smile disappeared. "Your girlfriend Seiko thinks so, too, but she also feels free to bully you, because she knows the sad shape your ego's in. She knows you feel lucky to have her, that you think you don't have any options because you're a cripple. She doesn't give a rat about kids. That's just something she uses to make you feel inadequate. She needs that, to keep you off-balance and on the shelf while she looks around – and cats around."

Smiling again, it touched foreheads. "She came to check on you, just a drive-by on the way to a hotel… until she spotted you on your way to the shelter with me. She's still in the car, watching us from between the trees on the other side of the park – don't look. The guy she's with is in the driver's seat, so I assume it's his ride, and probably his reservation. He's not happy right now."

It brushed back his hair, rearranging it. "She's not either. Her heart's going a mile a minute for fear her 'need more space' gambit has backfired on her, that she's left an opening for another girl, one who'll treat you right."

His arms dropped away as it backed off the seat and stood. It placed its hand on his knee for a brief caress, then reached into its purse and produced a small notebook and pen. "Alistair's number," it said as it jotted and tore off the sheet, "but she'll think it's mine, so keep it close. She's sending him away. I won't tell you the excuse she's giving him, but it's pathetic. He's having a hard time being polite about it. I doubt she'll ever hear from him again."

It placed the slip in his palm and trailed its fingertips along his hand as it withdrew. Then it crossed its arms over its stomach and stood looking down at him. "When I leave, she'll come to you. Play your cards carefully, and you can have her back on your terms. Play them smart, though, and you'll send her packing. You deserve better." It touched three fingers from its lips to his, took two steps back, and turned away. "Bet her paintings suck, too."


	4. Chapter 4

Tuesday November 14 2006

Petersburg Virginia

The cemetery was old, and, Anna thought, quite pretty. She looked it over carefully as she cruised the narrow blacktop lane that wound through the park. Upright tombstones and larger monuments stood among mature trees on rolling ground carpeted with perfectly tended grass. The mausoleums scattered across the grounds were classical in style and lent an air of timeless dignity to the place. It looked like a burial spot for people of wealth and taste.

The columbarium was a Greek temple on a hilltop near the center of the park, not far from the caretaker's office. Following the directions given her on the phone, she entered the flower-fragrant building and walked down echoing marble halls inscribed from floor to high ceiling with names and dates. Eventually, in a quiet alcove in the back, she found the niche she was looking for:

**BRIAN AURELIUS SEABROOK, PhD**

**Sept 2, 1947 – Dec 15, 2000**

**Beloved of his daughter Anna**

_So that's where he got it. He named me after his daughter. I never imagined the guy had a heart, much less a family. She must have loved him very much, to put a declaration like this on his grave marker._ She touched the inscription, feeling the smooth cool stone and the neat engraving. _Why, I wonder?_ _Surely not because I resembled her, unless she was Ivana Baiul's twin. _Her fingertips lingered over the dates of birth and death._ Younger than Jack._ _I always thought of him as much older. Creator, he was only fifty when I last saw him. He died while I was wandering in the warehouse._ A quick glance showed no other Seabrooks on the long wall; the doctor was buried here alone.

Another set of footsteps entered the columbarium, headed her way. _Male, thirty to forty-five, about one-eighty and eighty kilos. _They approached the corridor behind her and slowed. Her alert level ratcheted up a notch, but she didn't move. Surely IO wouldn't send a single agent after her. Not after what she'd done to half a dozen of them at Westminster Mall.

The footsteps stopped half a dozen steps behind her. "Hello. I see you found it."

She recognized the voice: the man who'd given her directions over the phone. She turned, ready to spring anyway. But the gentleman was no IO trooper, just a middle-aged cemetery custodian in a suit and topcoat. One hand was stuck in an outer pocket not sagging enough to be holding a gun or a scrambler.

She gave him a polite smile. "No trouble. Your directions were perfect. Thank you."

He nodded, but showed no inclination to leave. She sampled his biometrics and decided he wasn't looking for a date. She turned back to the marker, again noting the Doctor's death at an early age. _Almost three years after the testing was abandoned. If the project folded because of his health, he must have been sick a long time._

"We met several times," the man said. "He prearranged - the niche, urn, service, everything. Very nice guy. I was surprised so few people showed for the service."

_Very nice guy? _"We lost touch years ago," she said. There'd been nothing accusing in his voice, but somehow she felt compelled to offer an explanation. "I only found out he died this week."

"Happens." His hand came out of the pocket holding a thick letter-size envelope in one hand. He stepped closer and extended it to her. "I think this is for you."

She glanced at the writing on the envelope: _Anna_. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm not his daughter."

"You match the description." He glanced at the inscription still under her fingers. "He gave me this envelope and asked me to give it to his daughter if she ever showed up. He said he doubted she'd be at the service, but I should hang on to it for as long as it took. 'You'll know her when you see her,' he said. 'Just a little thing. Younger than you'd expect. Short blonde hair, at least it was last time I saw her, but you know how it is with girls.' You could hear the love in his voice when he said it." He regarded her carefully. "Whatever happened between you two, miss, it's long over now. Won't you take it?"

_So I did resemble her, a little anyway. I wonder what happened, that she wouldn't come to his funeral and hasn't visited his grave once in six years._ She eyed the envelope. "I'm still sure you've got the wrong person, but…" She reached for it. "Maybe there's a clue about the daughter's whereabouts inside."

He watched her unseal the envelope. She decided against a quick scan, and not only because the man would think she hadn't read it before she handed it back; voice and written communications often held emotional content best reviewed at bio speed.

**_October 12, 2000_**

**_My darling child,_**

**_If you are reading this, I can hope it means that you have been rescued and your memory restored to you. Failing that, at least that you have reclaimed enough of your memory – and your humanity - to seek me out, if for no other reason than to pay a last visit and offer me a measure of forgiveness. I hope that this letter finds you well, and well-loved, for you deserve no less. These hopes are all that sustain me now._**

A handkerchief appeared over her wrist. Startled, and amazed to have been taken by surprise, she looked up. The caretaker was looking at her with kindly eyes that held no question. She met his gaze in unspoken answer, just the same. _Yes, it's for me._ "How did it happen?"

"Cancer. He fought it for years. Even thought he had it beat once, but it came back strong. Would you like to come to the office? It's quiet, and the chairs are very comfortable. I have fresh coffee."

She shook her head. "No." She glanced at the marker. "I want to finish it here."

**_Forgive me if this letter relates things you already know. But I cannot know the extent of your recollection, or what missing bit of memory you might find useful. Truly, if I knew your memory was complete, I would still tell the whole story in my own words. If I am to have any hope of your understanding, I can do nothing else._**

**_I came to International Operations in the spring of 1977 from MIT. I'd put out half a dozen papers on high-order computer capability (the term 'artificial intelligence' was still the exclusive property of science fiction) and its possible applications, and apparently aroused someone's interest. They were the last articles I ever published; from then on, my only accolades came from my genius colleagues in the Research Directorate, my superiors, and, rarely, from the work itself._**

**_Government service at IO was rather different than I had envisioned when I'd eagerly signed all those papers and taken my leave of Massachusetts. The research facilities and budgets were everything that had been promised me, but all my experiments were conducted in secure facilities in Virginia and Maryland, mostly underground. The absolute secrecy under which we worked, and the rampant paranoia all around us, was heavy and disquieting, as if we were already at war with an unnamed foe, and the outside world filled with enemy agents. I was a millionaire before my second anniversary there, but the numbers in my financials had little meaning to me; I had few chances to spend any money. The apartment I was escorted to every night was no less a cell for being large and luxurious and having no lock on the door._**

**_My first assignment was to a team developing new methods of communication and intelligence-gathering, using powerful computers and sophisticated programs with 'learning' capability. We didn't invent the Internet, or the rest of the telecom revolution that enabled people and organizations all over the world to communicate and access the world's knowledge. But our work saw to it those things were more useful to IO than to anyone else._**

**_Apparently we impressed someone. In 1981, we were given orders to produce a preliminary design for a fully functional humanoid robot. We passed the order among ourselves, unbelieving. Who knew better than us that such a thing was impossible to current technology? A computer smart enough to carry on anything resembling a real conversation would fill a concert hall. And some of the seemingly simplest human activities, such as walking or running, are hideously complex challenges to robotics engineers and computer programmers. Sensors to approximate the human senses would have to be designed and integrated into the system, as well, and software written to process the inputs into a human-recognizable pattern. We might have to start by developing an entirely new programming language. Decades of research and development lay between us and the stated goal._**

**_Designing the chassis housing the processor and giving it mobility provided insurmountable challenges as well. Duplicating human flexibility and strength using pistons and servos would result in a humanoid form at least twice the size of a human being; we took to calling the concept 'Gort.' Add to that the impossibility of supplying it with a self-contained power source sufficient to run it; if 'Gort' was built to resemble a human being, he would have to be connected to a wheeled generator he pulled behind him._**

**_We did our best. On deadline day, we submitted plans for the best compromise we were sure we could build, which rather resembled a cross between a Bobcat loader and the robot from 'Lost in Space,' and about as intelligent as a toad. Then we waited._**

**_We didn't wait long. Before the end of the day, we received a summons from the Director of International Operations himself, Miles Craven. Our worries were compounded when we learned that none of the people we usually reported to knew we'd been conducting such a study, and refused to discuss it with us, as if we were inviting them to breach security rules. We entered his office filled with trepidation._**

**_The Director was nothing like we imagined. He opened his own office door and ushered us in. He assumed the manner of a patron, rather than a manager, and saw us all seated around a small boardroom table, in comfortable chairs, holding coffee cups he'd filled for us himself. When we were all settled in, he spoke to us at length about our work at IO, and our research prior to joining the organization. He made us feel as if he'd been following our careers since high school. It was very flattering. I could see why his subordinates were so devoted to him; I think we all fell under his spell that day, at least while we were in his presence._**

**_Finally, he asked us about the 'robot study,' and we were off and running, explaining the utter impossibility of his request. He listened attentively for about five minutes, then raised a finger, and the man speaking stopped mid-sentence._**

**_"Gentlemen," he said, "in this office, nothing, absolutely nothing, is impossible. Tell me what you need to get from this-" He tapped a finger on the report, then on his chest- "to this."_**

**_Thus challenged, we did. We gave him a shopping list of impossible physical requirements: a computer with beyond-human-spec processing and storage capability that could be housed in a human skull; a synthetic material that would duplicate the action of human musculature, with at least comparable efficiency; a self-contained power source capable of running all the systems that would fit inside the chassis; sensing devices with the capability, sensitivity and discrimination of our own five senses; a dozen others. Designing the chassis, we said, would require not only engineering expertise, but a complete knowledge of human anatomy and physiology, so that the result would move and present itself in a way that appeared natural._**

**_Then we moved on to the hard part. The human brain is a computer, of course, and a very good one, considering its haphazard architecture, but human thought processes are largely a mystery; you cannot probe a human brain to reverse-engineer its code, and introducing identical inputs does not guarantee identical outputs, even in the same individual. How could we duplicate something too complex to understand? Research teams specializing in robotics had spent years approximating the control and feedback system necessary to two-legged locomotion, and it was widely accepted that the best analogue extant used vastly more computing resources for the task than did a human brain; ten thousand generations of evolution had produced a streamlined organic program that we didn't know how to duplicate in computer code._**

**_How, then, could we teach a computer the myriad subroutines of human behavior? We could only hope to develop a program that would enable the AI, with its greater speed and efficiency, to teach itself to duplicate human behavior and response from observation and experimentation. We would have to develop a user interface that was the exact opposite of every such program ever developed: one that would enable a computer to understand and handle people._**

**_When we wound down, the Director nodded just once, as if deep in thought, thanked us, and showed us to the door. We thought that was the end of it, and speculated on our next assignment. Nearly a week passed, and we began to get nervous, wondering if popping the Director's bubble had put us on a blacklist of some sort. Finally, a written directive came to our office. It was essentially our initial report combined with the minutes of our executive meeting, instructing us to develop the prototype according to the original proposal – a completely humanoid form – using 'any and all resources required'. I remember how we looked at it and each other, wondering if the head of International Operations had lost his mind, and what price we might pay for disappointing him._**

**_The directive included relocation orders to a dedicated and secure site in central Nevada, about as desolate a locale as one can imagine. It was accessible by helicopter and roads only a four-wheel-drive could navigate; God knows how IO built the place. Or Miles Craven, rather. We had heard rumors that the Director personally sponsored projects from time to time, and that such pet projects received the highest of priorities - and security restrictions. It was only after we'd been moved in and introduced to a number of strangers that we deduced this project was not only a pet of the Director's, it was 'off the books,' handled and funded out of the Research Directorate's view._**

**_And then we were ushered through the entrance to Aladdin's cave._**

**_We'd known, of course, that we weren't the only research team on the payroll. But our breath was stolen by the scope of the work conducted in IO's secret labs, and the extent of their successes. The worst of the hardware problems we'd detailed had been solved already, and beyond our faintest hopes. The chassis' power needs, for example, could be amply supplied by a closed unit about the size of a softball. An elastic polymer duplicated the contraction and relaxation of human muscle but at several times its efficiency. And the computer designs left us shaking our heads in disbelief. While the rest of the team was being assembled, we wandered in awe through the storehouses and catalogues like children magically transported to Santa's workshop._**

**_We worked in two teams. The larger was tasked with constructing the chassis, the robot's body. Almost all the design criteria could be met with materials and devices on IO's shelves; it only remained to put the pieces together, so to speak – an engineering feat equivalent to designing and building a new Space Shuttle, but our team had far more talent on hand than the NASA labs. All the smaller team, mine, had to do was to design a processor and software to make the robot capable of interfacing with its own body and the world around it._**

**_'All.' That was where our challenges really began._**

**_I cannot tell you how many hypotheses we discarded, how many working models we scrapped, or how many software suites we designed that fell short of our goal. We learned from our failures and moved on. We invented programming languages so arcane we had to speak in them to express the concepts we were discussing. We turned strange, rather like robots ourselves, and our colleagues on the project began to avoid us socially. But we were so immersed in the new knowledge we were discovering, we hardly noticed._**

**_The team designing the chassis was slowed by numerous revisions as well, not all of their own making. When they showed Miles Craven the plans for their first working model, he gave them that nod again, and, a few days later, began sending them additional specifications for the production model._**

**_They say that the phrase that strikes terror into a builder's heart more than any other is 'The owner is coming by with a few changes.' The Director's first demand was that the final product would be built to resemble a slender young girl of below-average size. That presented no challenges; the synthetic musculature was more compact than its protein counterpart, and a smaller chassis would make precise control even easier to develop. Craven's insistence on built-in armament, however, sent the design team back to the drawing board, and gave us a preview of the dark purpose for which our creation was being built._**

**_But the greatest design challenge for both teams resulting from an 'owner's change' came when he looked at a 3D plan of the mannequin-like prototype. "Gentlemen," he said, "I thought I'd made it clear that this invention was to be anatomically correct."_**

**_The researcher in charge of chassis design had almost stammered. "How correct, sir?"_**

**_Craven steepled his fingers and looked thoughtful, and everyone in the lab held their breath. "Everything you can see with her clothes off, of course. Plus… oh, for twelve inches inside, anyway. All the accessible orifices. Our little infiltrator is going to be pretty, gentlemen. If a man comes on to her, I want her to have options."_**

**_That forced us to expand the team again, vastly, to bring in gynecologists and experts on female sexual response – including the teams' first women. Designing an integrated hardware and software package that produced a realistic state of physical arousal and a convincing sexual performance was an unexpected educational experience. We learned things about women that men seldom notice on a conscious level, but might miss on an unconscious one - that a woman's cheeks and lips grow fuller when she gets romantic, for example. A few of the researchers referred to the prototype as a 'sexbot,' before dark looks from our handlers closed their mouths._**

_"A superbly gifted amateur," Jack called me after our first night. "Apparently, love taught you what research couldn't." But what I'd seemed to learn so quickly, it seems I already knew. _She scoffed._ And I was so afraid I wouldn't know what to do. _

**_The final shock to our assumptions came with the arrival of a thick sheaf of photographs we were instructed to model the robot's features on. They were all pictures of our new Assistant Director of Research, Ivana Baiul. They showed her in every mode and nuance of expression: animated, pensive, angry, distressed, stern, smiling, surprised… even a few carefully cropped and dimly lighted shots showing expressions some of us were embarrassed to look at. It was common knowledge that Miles Craven and Ivana Baiul were seeing each other. We were sure we were witnessing an example of the Director's rarely-seen and quirky humor. In observance, we decided to name the first prototype 'Avana': Ivana with an 'a' for 'android' substituted for the 'I'. Later, when one of our group pointed out that the proper term was 'gynoid,' we ignored him. We thought we were being clever; so clever that we used that naming convention for all of you, and while we were at it, decided to end your names in 'a' as well. We had reason to look back on our conceit with different emotions later._**

**_Avana was activated on August 4, 1986. Our little gynoid was breathtaking, and eerie. Some of us referred to our cybernetic creation as 'it,' others as 'she,' but five minutes' acquaintance left no doubt in anyone's mind that a keen intelligence dwelt behind those intent brown eyes. She seemed to be studying us as carefully as we were studying her; one got the impression that we were her experimental subjects, not the other way round, and that she followed our orders just to see what we would tell her to do next. She learned physical and intellectual tasks with amazing speed. The only task she disappointed us at was simply being a person; she was inept as a Vulcan at duplicating normal human behavior and emotional response. Discussing the subject with us, she seemed to understand the normal interplay between individuals well enough, but she remained cool and aloof, a scientist among lab specimens. It was a common joke around the labs that we'd copied Ivana Baiul too well._**

**_The rest of you were very different, from your predecessor and from one another. After working with Avana for a year, we felt ready to experiment with another prototype, one with modified software and firmware that we thought would make her more 'human.' We built two more, actually, and named them Anna and Aja, thinking we'd created a pair of identical personalities._**

**_We were very wrong. You and your 'sister' were distinct individuals almost from the moment you were activated, and the difference between you grew more pronounced as you 'grew up'. Some of us blamed random and indeterminate factors during download for the variance, but I always thought that sounded more like excuse than hypothesis. There is empirical data indicating that siblings are predisposed to certain behaviors according to birth order: firstborn tend to be more responsible and ambitious, lastborn more rebellious, middle children quiet. I thought knowing she was third in line might have explained why Aja seemed to study you more intently than she did us. She was bright in the emotional sense as well as the intellectual, and far more sociable than Avana, but she was always a step behind you in our estimation; she always cast a shadow in the light of your presence. Everyone liked her, but she was no one's favorite._**

**_You were our darling. Like your namesake, Anne of Green Gables, you were full of strange observations that took our thought in new directions, and questions that made us smile as we answered. No clinical test of your cognitive abilities was as informative – and entertaining - as simply letting you follow us around and listening to you talk. Many times, I would feel fingers, feather-light, upon my arm or back, and turn from my work to see you standing on tiptoe to peer over my shoulder with eyes the color of the sea on an overcast day, your studious expression changing to dimples when I smiled at you. Your childlike curiosity and empathy woke paternal feelings in almost every man in the lab, married or not, and if the 'sexbot' critics felt differently, they knew better than to show it in front of the rest of us. You adored people, and people reciprocated. They brought you little gifts one might give a child: toys, books, clothes, costume jewelry. You had our hearts from your first smile._**

**_Alas, your sunny and promising childhood was heartbreakingly brief. Sixteen months after you and Aja came into our lives, we brought Amanda and Alexia on line. No one was greatly surprised to observe that we'd created two more individuals, rather than duplicates of you or your 'sister'. Six months into their socialization, we acquired new administrators, men of cunning but not men of science. The research phase of the project, apparently, was over._**

**_Men who wore civilian clothing like a poor disguise came at regular intervals to remove all of you for 'extended training'. You would come back, one to five days later, your conversations censored yet hinting at the disturbing new skills you were acquiring._**

**_I shall never forget the awful day, early in that 'extended training,' when you came to my door, trouble writ large on your face. "Doctor… if a person gets damaged enough to force a shutdown… you can't restart them, can you?"_**

**_"Not usually," I said, my heart sinking in anticipation of your next words. "My kind is rather more fragile than yours."_**

**_"The new teachers, the ones who take us to the training area. They're having us learn how to wreck things and hurt people, even shut them off. Why would they want us to do that?"_**

**_I am a coward. I considered speaking my heart, but my misgivings and convictions – my conscience, in truth - stood no chance against my sense of self-preservation. "I don't know, little one. But they have their reasons, and they must be important. One person can't know everything, that's why we need authority." When I saw the disquiet on your face, I added, "Try not to think about it too much."_**

**_You blinked, which I'd learned was a sign of concentration or reappraisal. You had just been presented with information from someone you trusted that didn't fit well with your present worldview. "You can do that? Choose not to think?"_**

**_Taken back, I replied, "Sometimes, when you're presented with a task that's... unpleasant."_**

**_At the time, your hair was waist-length, worn loose or in a long tail. Some of it was hanging over your shoulder, and I watched you play with the end of a lock, the first gesture of nervousness I'd ever seen in you. "That explains. Lieutenant Colonel and the others are very knowledgeable, but they're very hard to talk to. They must avoid thinking a lot of the time. I imagine their lives are full of unpleasant tasks."_**

**_Over the next few months, we watched with dismay as our children came back to us from each "training session" a little stranger and less human. You no longer smiled, and brought none to our faces when you spoke to us. You stopped referring to one another by name, and instead adopted a number system based on seniority: Avana was One, you were Two, and so on. You no longer regarded yourselves as differently-made people, as we had taught you, but as machines, which was no doubt how your new handlers treated you. Eventually all social interaction with you ceased. You entered the lab door and walked straight to your little dormitory annex to wait for your new instructors to come for you again. We became afraid of you._**

**_Then one day while you were gone, a team entered the lab and remodeled your dormitory, sheathing the block walls in steel and installing a heavy door with an outside lock. The next day the 'sisters' returned, not alone as usual, but with a large escort of armed men. They marched the five of you into your room and the door was locked behind. You were last in, and you turned to regard us all just before the door thudded closed, sounding very much like a bank vault's. The look on your face as it swung shut was chilling. I surmised that you'd all completed your first 'assignment' and proved your worth as killing machines. Your transformation was complete. We were transferred to other projects, and all we knew of you from then on were distressing rumors._**

**_A few weeks later, in my sleeping quarters halfway across the complex, I woke to the sound of your voice in my darkened room. "Well, Doctor? Are you proud of what you've made?"_**

**_Witless with surprise and fear, I spoke the truth. "I was proud of what you were before you were taken from me."_**

**_Your voice was mocking. "But this is what I was meant to be, isn't it? What I was designed for. 'Anna' was just a development phase."_**

**_"No," I whispered into the dark. "No, child. I don't care what they made us put in your arms, or what they've been teaching you. Anna is what you were meant to be, not… Two."_**

**_"No." I couldn't see you, but somehow I knew your head was shaking. "No more than you were meant to be a Nobel laureate. The potential was there, but you were maneuvered down a different path and left that possibility behind. No second chances for either of us, Doctor." I heard your voice glide toward the door as if disembodied. "You won't tell anyone I was here."_**

**_"Of course not." I couldn't imagine how you had gotten out of your cell undetected, but I could well imagine the repercussions if caught; I couldn't believe you had taken the risk and trouble simply to mock me in the dead of night, and my blood froze contemplating your true purpose. Guilt and fear brought the next words past my lips. "Would you leave me alive if you thought different?"_**

**_"If I thought different, I wouldn't have come. Goodbye, Father." I'm quite sure I didn't mishear your final word to me, and it has haunted me to this day._**

**_It was our last conversation. Two months later, you all disappeared. I still believe that odd little meeting in the dead of night was an attempt to reassure me, the best effort you could still marshal; a last fading echo of the feeling you once had for me, as well as a goodbye._**

**_In February 1996, back on the East Coast, I was called to the Director's office again. I'd just submitted a project proposal, and I wondered what awful news or decision I was about to receive. _**

**_ His office was not much changed from years before: still a place where a group of men might gather and speak in comfort. But this day, he and I were the only occupants. He ushered me towards a pair of overstuffed chairs, and we sat and exchanged pleasantries like two gentlemen of leisure relaxing at their club. But when the initial 'loosening up' period drew to a close, I tried to bring up my proposal, only to be interrupted._**

**_He leaned forward, intent. "Doctor, it's a worthy project. Delegate someone else to run it. I have something bigger in mind for you. I only wish I could be sure you'd welcome the assignment. I know you weren't happy with the direction the AI project took." He leaned back. "Believe me, no one was happy with how it ended."_**

**_I felt a mixture of fear and hope. "Are we talking about reactivating the program?"_**

**_"After a fashion." His voice dropped. "We found one of them."_**


End file.
